Losing My Religion

She wore white; a simple dress with rosebuds at the waist, pearl dots sewn down the skirt, and cloth covered buttons lined the back. She walked slowly in precession up the church aisle, hands clasped together in prayer fashion, in innocence. She smiled at me as she passed by. Just a glimpse of that impish twinkle sends me reeling on a course to follow her anywhere.  

It's our youngest, 8-year old Melanie, who received communion this past sunny Saturday at St. Edward the Confessor Church among the 25 other children all dressed in their ceremonial Sunday best. Boys' hair combed flat, girls' curly locks sprayed, veils bobby-pinned in place. 

I'm not sure what Melanie thought of this big day, but it was monumental to us.  Oh, she was excited, fidgety, reverent and humble in God's house. She loved dressing up, having guests later on. But, I wondered if she really got it or held any type of belief, and did she realize that she is the last grandchild on both sides of our family (sixth on my side and fifth for my husband Tom) to receive Communion and what the magnitude of that meant. 

Maybe it will sink in later in her life when she's at a crossroads or searching for understanding—searching for some meaning of life—or as she continues to meet people of other faiths in the mix of Syosset and wherever else life leads her. This will guide her, define her, comfort her—open her to new experiences. Maybe this will provide a moral compass, a place of reflection—for all of our children, too.

My husband and I are not religious, although I'm very spiritual and open to many cultures and religious beliefs. We felt it was our duty as parents to give our children some foundation somewhere, and were both raised Catholic. But, truthfully, we aren't devout and don't attend church regularly.

"I'm nervous," Melanie whispered to me, sitting in the aisle seat of the ninth pew.

"It's OK. Mommy's here," I said quietly, and held her hand. "You don't have to do anything. You're already doing it." Her hand loosened its grip on mine.

St. Edward's has been a wonderful experience with joyous occasions: weddings, christenings, communions and confirmations of family members now fully grown who sat in pews sharing Melanie's day, celebrating the way most families celebrate a right of passage—with love.

As Father Tom guided us, I saw the ribbons of time unfurled. In eight years we've watched her crawl, walk, lose teeth, learn to talk, read, write and find her way.  She's outgrown tricycles, clothes, shoes, Barney and formed a first crush on Justin Bieber. Will her faith keep her righted, will mine?

Here's a kid who deftly keeps up with her older brother and sister. They always seem two steps ahead of her, yet we're all light years behind her.

Here's a kid who understands her way around folks. When she was 5, in pre-op for a tonsillectomy, the tonsil fixer doctor was explaining the procedure. Maybe she didn't want to hear words like incision or anesthesia. But she gasped, "Oh, my God! You have such big words," and turned to us. "Daddy, do you understand him?" 

This gave pause to the "white coat syndrome" textbook rhetoric.  The doctor smiled and said, "You're a smart one, aren't you?" 

Am I arrogant enough to say we don't need religion anymore? I'll take it from here God, thanks, got it! I talk to many of my friends who observe different religions out of habit, tradition. But have we thought about why? We've had hard times. I pray for good things, wish God well, send love through my mind, feel comforted and peaceful. But what do I believe?

I'm not sure.

After the lovely ceremony, I hugged my good friend Marie, a faithful Christian woman and Melanie's catechism teacher.

"I don't think our family's coming back to catechism next year," I said.

"I know," she smiled. "Take your time."

I believe in Melanie. It's her (and all three kids) who makes me question whether I did the right things in my life. It's her who makes me cool my temper or think twice about going back to work full-time, grappling with what to do with my children all summer if I'm not home? It's her who made me truly mature as a mother. She's the kid whose endless questions led me to finally say – I don't know the answer to that, but I'll spend my life trying to find the truth for you and live it. 

I believe in her and the hope for the future that her youth represents as she kneels, head bowed, after receiving the Eucharist for the first time. 

Here's a question from when she was 5:  "Mommy, do the days keep going on for everyone—like when we run out of cookies and you go buy more. Do you have to go somewhere to get more days to live, or do they just keep going for people who live in New York?"

"They just keep coming for everyone, Melanie." 

May the days keep going for you, too!